Revelation
by adaon45
Summary: Based on The Black Cauldron. Captured by Morgant, Ellidyr is forced the confront the consequences of his behavior.


Disclaimer: These are Lloyd Alexander's characters. I am only playing with them—as carefully as possible.

Sentences or phrases in quotation marks come directly from _The Black Cauldron_—pp. 34, 181, and 36, respectively, of my hardcover edition.

Revelation

Morgant's warriors had battered him within an inch of his life. Even had he been able to command in full his prodigious strength—normally that of five sturdy men—he would have been outnumbered. At least ten warriors leaped on him, ripping away his sword before he could draw it. He hadn't given up without a fight. Bellowing like a bull, he attacked with his fists several who would have cause to remember him—and who were probably responsible for the brutality used to subdue him. For in the end resistance was futile. His strength was sapped by hunger, thirst, his nightmarish flight dodging—often unsuccessfully—the cruel talons of gwythaints. _And_ he'd been already wounded in the battle with the Huntsmen, _and_ he'd dragged the cauldron out of the river _and_ then through the forest by himself. Feverish, muscles stiff and straining, he had been on the verge of collapse when he'd met Morgant, and assumed—how mistakenly!—the worst was over. Babbling in relief the tale he'd concocted of hauling the cauldron out of Morva on his own, he had been caught off guard when Morgant ordered him disarmed.

And so here he was, a prince of Pen-Llarcau, trussed hand and foot like a fowl ready for roasting. He should have been fuming at the indignity, but he was not. For one thing, he was amazed to be thinking at all; the heavy blows to his head should have knocked him unconscious. Was this unconsciousness? His eyes were closed, his body unmoving on the floor of the tent where he'd been left, presumably to be slain and thrown into the cauldron later. But he couldn't be unconscious if he were in this much pain. Each of his many injuries sent separate throbs to blend in a blazing fire that engulfed his entire being. Yet, just as it seemed he must scream aloud, the white-hot agony became a curtain through which he passed, purged of sensation, into a place where he could see as from a vantage-point all that had brought him to this pass. Here too was pain: he did not want to look. But look he must. It was as if a relentless, stern version of himself held his head and forced him to see the former Ellidyr—the Ellidyr he had been before being captured by Morgant—perpetrating the misdeeds that had culminated in his delivering the cauldron, with its infinite capacity for evil, into the hands of a traitor. A traitor who intended to use it every bit as ruthlessly as Arawn. But was not he, Ellidyr, in his own way a traitor? Had he not betrayed the trust placed in him? The question dashed itself against his brain:

_What have I done?_

It was, he realized, the first time he had ever asked what _he_ had done. In the past, he was the one _done to_. Wrongs were not perpetrated by but against him. People—otherwise known as obstacles—were always doing unjust, degrading things that kept him from being properly appreciated. Since birth, he had doggedly fought those who forced him into second place. And so, as the stern inner self made him do so, he relived the weary, angering life-journey that would bring him to the floor of Morgant's tent.

He was the sixth, and last, son of the crotchety ruler of a small northern kingdom carved from inhospitable land. Once, it was said, the soil had been rich and the land had prospered, but over time what was vital shrank and shriveled like the spindly crops in the rocky fields. Like so much else, the castle in which Ellidyr grew up had once been imposing, but was now falling to pieces, forcing the king's quarrelsome brood to camp in the few rooms not too moldy or damaged to inhabit.

Between six sons and the old king, the royal family was a male enclave. Ellidyr's mother had died giving birth to him. He gathered that she had been a meek and downtrodden sort, and that her husband's dominant emotion at her death was annoyance she had stranded him with this feeble, puling babe. The runt of the litter, old Pen-Llarcau called his youngest son. And, during his first years, Ellidyr had been both scrawny and sickly. But then, when he was around five, he began to show signs of the strength that enabled him, even at that tender age, to pick up a burly man as if he were but a feather's weight. No one knew where this gift had come from, and as Ellidyr was never a bulky sort himself his strength seemed nothing short of magical. Well, at least his father stopped calling him the runt of the litter. But Pen-Llarcau remained unimpressed by his son. So little did he bother with him that even when he wanted to whip the boy he entrusted the task to a servant—not that any of them dared touch the prince once they knew his strength. His father hadn't cared about that, either, and to the extent he thought of his youngest considered him a freak. So did his older brothers, who soon learned to steer clear of him but whose fear of his ability to trounce them never translated into genuine respect, much less affection.

And so Ellidyr grew up a moody, disgruntled youth. His sole friend was the horse he got when he was eleven—the only real gift he ever received—a nervous, speckled mare named Islimach. Trained to bear him alone, her temper rivalled his, and the grooms of the stable constantly complained of her spiteful nips. It gave Ellidyr a joy and pride he never otherwise experienced that the mare preferred him to care for her, and that she liked it when, after he had ridden her as far from the castle as he could, he would dismount and whisper in her ear tales of his wrongs while she nuzzled his face.

As early as he could, Ellidyr placed his hopes of rescue from this mire of second-bestness in war and feats of arms. Glory, renown—those were weapons he could wield against his father's neglect, his brother's insolent faces as they seized what was left of the family fortune. Because Ellidyr was so strong, training for battle was a breeze, and the only occupation other than riding Islimach that gave him pleasure. He had to do a certain amount of practice on his own as his brothers, especially once they started getting married, couldn't be bothered to give him lessons, and his father's war leader, who taught him the basics of sword-fighting, fled after several incidents in which he was nearly spitted by Ellidyr's weapon.

Ellidyr received his first chance to prove himself at sixteen. He was young for battle, but he bullied two of his brothers into letting him tag along when they went to fight with Lord Gwydion—next in line to the throne of the High King Math—in a battle against the encroaching forces of Annuvin. Cantrev lords kept defecting to Arawn's side as the King of the Land of Death promised them power and riches, and it was one of these turncoats whom Ellidyr and his brothers fought. As the cantrev lord commanded a sizable fighting force, it had been a heated encounter. At one moment, Ellidyr became aware of Lord Gwydion watching him from the back of his white steed, Melyngar, as the Prince of Pen-Llarcau lifted two muscle-bound antagonists and flung them away as effortlessly as bales of hay. After he returned home Ellidyr hoped that Lord Gwydion would remember him. He was disappointed not to be able to defeat the fearsome Horned King the following spring with the Prince of Don's forces, but he continued to dream of being asked to fight again.

Unlike so many of his dreams through the years, this one actually came true. One autumn day, as drafts raced through the tumbledown castle, Ellidyr received a summons from Lord Gwydion to come to Caer Dallben, home of the great enchanter, to attend a council. Ellidyr was not sure what the council would be about, but surely some great battle was being planned. It occurred to Ellidyr to wonder why the council was held at Caer Dallben rather than at Gwydion's home of Caer Dathyl, the great castle of the High King in the north, but he was too excited by his chance for glory to bother much with such details.

And so he undertook the lengthy journey on Islimach to the small farm in the south. It was not an impressive place, but Ellidyr's wildest hopes seemed about to be realized when he entered the council chamber as one of a select group who included not only King Smoit of Cantrev Cadiffor but the great King Morgant of Madoc—second in power and ability only to the Prince of Don. Excitement mounting, Ellidyr found out that Gwydion's goal was nothing less than to raid Annuvin and destroy the cauldron in which Arawn created his deathless warriors. And so, with baited breath, the young prince waited to hear what important task he would be assigned in a quest destined to be the stuff of legend.

_Guard the pack animals?_

Ellidyr could not believe his ears. While others stormed Annuvin, he was to tend the horses? Oh, there was more to the job than that. What else had Gwydion said Ellidyr's group was to do? "Secure our retreat" and "serve as the need demands." Wonderful—in addition to playing groom of the stables, he would be Gwydion's lackey. And, to add insult to injury, he would not only take a servant's part, but do so at the side of an actual servant.

The pig-boy.

Now Ellidyr had taken a grim pleasure upon his arrival at Caer Dallben in trouncing the insolent youth—his own age, by the looks of him—who dared resist the prince's commands to drop everything and do his bidding. After depositing the lad on Dallben's doorstep to be thrashed by his master, he had been considerably surprised several hours later to see the same, somewhat muddy youth entering the council room. Since when did a pig-boy join the deliberations of heroes? Maybe it was one of Gwydion's odd notions of equality, of a piece with the Prince of Don's studied indifference to displaying his rank. The prince of Pen-Llarcau, normally scathing in his criticism of others, tried not to think too harshly of Gwydion, since he was the one giving Ellidyr his big chance. Still, as Ellidyr seated himself at the council table he could not help glancing in disbelief at Gwydion's coarse, travel-stained attire. Could Ellidyr afford new clothes—not the threadbare hand-me-downs he had to patch himself—he would wear garb befitting royalty. At least Morgant knew how to dress properly.

So the unprincely-looking prince saddled him with a pig-boy companion. And Ellidyr was not even in charge of the upstart, which would have allowed him to to teach him a lesson or two. No, both Ellidyr and the pig-boy were under the command of someone else.

The dreamer.

Here, the stern inner self made Ellidyr stop and think about his habit of calling everyone jeering nicknames. What a convenient way of ignoring the humanity of those whom he thought of less as people than as obstacles on his path to glory. Thus, on this quest, as Ellidyr's original group expanded to include others, he refused to think of any of them by their proper names. The dwarf and the harper brought news of the mysterious theft of the cauldron from Annuvin right after the runaway scullery maid caught up with them. That Ellidyr knew the harper and scullery maid were royalty made his choice of demeaning nicknames the more pointed. The harper was king of a northern realm; the scullery maid a princess of some sort. What king roamed the countryside playing a harp? What princess scraped pots? Why did neither of them mind hanging out with riff-raff like the pig-boy?

And, speaking of riff-raff, there was the thing, as Ellidyr was forced to call him since he could think of no better description. A scruffy, hairy creature smelling like a wet wolfhound, the thing was the pig-boy's bosom friend at Caer Dallben. When the thing and the scullery maid joined them in the forest of Idris, Ellidyr thought his humiliation complete. A half-human, a pig-boy, and a girl, all tagging along with the prince-turned-lackey. His dreams of glory were evaporating fast.

And, to top it all off, he was supposed to obey someone who was half-cracked.

Ah yes. The dreamer again.

Ellidyr had heard of the dreamer before coming to Caer Dallben. He had, after all, made something of a name for himself with his bravery, and if Ellidyr was not mistaken he had been at the same battle in which the prince came to Gwydion's attention. Not that Ellidyr had had a chance to meet the dreamer then. No, that happened after the council at Caer Dallben, and Ellidyr was not pleased when the black-haired young man rebuked him and the pig-boy—gently but firmly—for fighting among themselves. Still, the prince had not fully realized how unfortunate he was in his choice of companions until the next morning, when, on their way from Caer Dallben, his leader started spouting nonsense about some dream he'd had in which Ellidyr was tortured by a black beast. What warrior set store by dreams? The man must be mad. Forced now in Morgant's tent to acknowledge unpalatable truths, Ellidyr had to admit that the first emotion he'd felt upon hearing of the dream was not contempt but fear. Just as the dreamer had the unsettling trick of seeming to see through you with his gray eyes, so did his mention of a black beast strike uncomfortably close to home for Ellidyr. For the flash of a moment, he saw the pride and ambition that spurred him in a new, unwelcome light. But, like all else he did not want to deal with, the prince pushed this thought firmly to the back of his mind. Hurling an insult at both pig-boy and dreamer, he'd snubbed them by refusing to ride at their side that first day.

Jogging instead behind Morgant's men, he told himself the dreamer's insanity must run in the family. He was son of the Chief Bard, was he not? As far as Ellidyr was concerned, bards were only good for singing the praises of famous warriors, who, needless to say, would soon prominently include himself. Otherwise, harpers were peddlers of moonshine, impenetrable verse, and, yes, useless dreams. Probably the Chief Bard—Chief Purveyor of Moonshine, more like—had taught his son how to speak in silly riddles.

And yet, even as he had these thoughts he felt his familiar companion, envy, gnawing at his heart. He had heard somewhere that the dreamer was the Chief Bard's only child. _He_ had not had to compete—vainly—with a brood of brothers for his father's attention. No, the young man was presumably the apple of his father's eye, a knowledge that provided the secure sense of self that made him annoyingly impervious to even Ellidyr's nastier gibes.

And the dreamer was not the only one with a caring father. Even the pig-boy—how this galled Ellidyr!—had at least three father figures. Oh, he hadn't an actual father—maybe didn't even know who his father was, since he wasn't identified as "son of" anyone but was instead only "of Caer Dallben." But, nonetheless, the servant boy had no fewer than three men interested in his welfare: the enchanter, the stout old warrior who did the farming at Caer Dallben, and Lord Gwydion himself. Yes, even though Gwydion rebuked him several times in Ellidyr's presence, the Prince of Don obviously cared about the pig-boy. Was the lad some bastard of Gwydion's? Though this crude theory appealed to Ellidyr, he doubted it was true. The very mysteriousness of the relationship between pig-boy and prince seemed a necessary ingredient in the whole puzzling brew. That even a boy of no family had a mighty lord watching over him made Ellidyr's own lack of a loving father the more embarrassing. And, to Ellidyr, the immutable rule of the universe was that everything happened in such a way as to humiliate him as much as possible.

Initially, he'd actually been pleased when the Huntsmen set upon them. At least Ellidyr was no longer on the sidelines but at the heart of the action. The cauldron was still missing, but Gwydion and the others were as much in the dark about its whereabouts as the rest of them. Perhaps Ellidyr's group would discover the cauldron, and win renown that way.

Yet even these hopes seemed doomed. The Huntsmen drove them further into the Forest of Idris, so they had no chance to do anything but scurry from their pursuers like frantic foxes. Finally they were driven to earth in the stinking, smoky burrow of the Fair Folk sentry posted near Annuvin.

Just at this moment, though, when Ellidyr was feeling as mortified as he'd ever been, something wonderful happened. The strange Fair Folk creature actually knew where the cauldron was—in some place called the Marshes of Morva. And the others, rather than fetching it immediately, were going to bear this knowledge back to Gwydion at Smoit's stronghold and await new orders.

Ellidyr's ever-elusive chance for fame had finally arrived. No more disappointments, no more delays. Let the others report to Gwydion like dutiful children. _He _was going to Morva himself. He even was able to gloat over the pig-boy and imply he was a coward for not pressing on to the Marshes.

But here he overdid it. Had he not taunted the pig-boy, perhaps the pig-boy would not have decided that the rest of them should go to the Marshes, too. In furious disbelief Ellidyr watched his Big Chance vanish yet again. Now he'd be stuck having to tag along with the others, and only gain a share of the glory he'd hoped to win entirely for himself.

Oh, he'd been livid, all right. Some of the others had still wanted to go to Caer Cadarn—upon hearing this he felt hopeful—but the dreamer, who after all was supposed to be in charge, allowed the pig-boy to choose their destination. Ellidyr's scorn for the Chief Bard's son reached new heights. What kind of leader was he, anyway? And he hadn't even asked Ellidyr's opinion, but that of a low-born upstart. Well, it figured. In yet another insult to the prince of Pen-Llarcau, the dreamer let _his_ favorite run things. For there was no question the dreamer and the pig-boy were friends. In fact, Ellidyr had yet another reason to loathe the pair of them when he realized that the pig-boy looked up to the dreamer as to an adored older brother. It made Ellidyr want to vomit. Of course, at the Fair Folk outpost he had not admitted what he did now, that he was not so much disgusted as jealous. Once again, the pig-boy possessed something Ellidyr lacked—for none of _his_ brothers were kindly mentors.

And yet—Ellidyr realized from his vantage-point in Morgant's tent—something had still been odd about the whole business. Why, indeed, had the dreamer not decided himself where they were going? Much as the prince liked to nurse grievances, it was finally hard to believe the dreamer had allowed the pig-boy to pick their destination just to spite Ellidyr. The dreamer hadn't seemed the type to let spite rule him, and he'd shown enough authority—galling authority, as far as Ellidyr was concerned—at other times. No, something else was afoot, and Ellidyr still didn't know what it was. During the whole time he and the pig-boy were quarrelling about going to Morva, and the dwarf and the scullery maid joined the wrangling, the dreamer just stood there, leaning against the wall while gazing at the fire. With his usual lack of charity, Ellidyr thought he was figuring out how to dream standing up. But the dreamer hadn't been asleep. In fact, despite his silence, the man's body was taut as a bowstring, either with the effort to keep from joining the debate or suspense at its outcome. Perhaps, indeed, it had been both. What had his gray eyes seen as they searched the fire? Was it the shadow of his own death? Had he dreamed about that, too?

Ellidyr would never know the answers to these questions. But, if the dreamer had puzzled the prince in this incident, in another, also at the waypost, he had seriously discomfited him. And, though at the time Ellidyr had been consumed by his rage at the others for going to Morva, he realized now that his discomfiture at this other episode was important, that it revealed something about himself it was vital he acknowledge.

In the fight with the Huntsmen Ellidyr had received a gash on his forehead. Though not a serious injury, it hurt quite a bit, and it also bled heavily. Ellidyr was not about to complain—heroes didn't let such trifles bother them, did they?—but when they reached the waypost he was dizzy from loss of blood. Once they were safely inside the wretched place the dreamer came toward Ellidyr holding items he'd fetched from his saddlebag—a water flask and several clean rags. Ellidyr regarded him narrowly. Only with difficulty did he keep from striking away the hand that reached toward his forehead. He was not about to be fussed over. Undeterred by the prince's palpable hostility, the dreamer had taken Ellidyr's chin with one hand, while with the other he'd held his head at an angle that allowed him to examine the wound. Nodding, he'd reached down to the water flask, which he'd placed on the rickety table, and proceeded to clean the gash and grind some herbs he carried in his belt. Were he not bent on being surly, Ellidyr might have marvelled at the foresight that caused someone going on a trip of this sort to pack a small mortar and pestle in his wallet. As it was, while the dreamer anointed Ellidyr's wound with the medicinal paste and bound everything up with one of the rags, the prince derisively asked if he were also a healer, making this occupation sound as shameful as pig-keeping. As usual, Ellidyr's mockery concealed emotions other than contempt. Prominent among these was fear.

Why fear, he asked himself as he lay on the floor of Morgant's tent. What was there to fear in someone tending his wound? Of course, he hadn't wanted to be babied. But—with dried blood caking his face—did he really fear anyone would think that? No, something else had filled him with panic.

No human being had ever touched him that way. No one had touched him kindly, in an attempt to alleviate his pain. It was such a new sensation that it scared him half out of his wits.

Oh, he'd had an old nurse who'd patched him up in his childhood. But she'd been hard-featured and acerbic, her touch hardly gentle. No, Islimach's nuzzling aside, he had never felt a gentle touch until that moment at the waypost. And he feared, as much as he'd ever feared anything, that he would like being treated with kindness and respect, that he would even want to treat others thus so they would respond the same way.

For—and this was Ellidyr's most carefully guarded secret, even from himself—the part of him not driven by ambition wished to be accepted just as he was. On the quest this part of him wistfully watched the the others' easy friendship, like a hungry beggar viewing a feast through a castle window. This same, wistful part of him felt the desire—the deepest yearning, even—to let down the guard of prickly anger and sarcasm with which he'd shielded himself from his earliest years. If he were to let down this guard, though, he stood the very real risk of being hurt, as he had been so often by his father and brothers and yes, even his mother who had died and left him. He could not be vulnerable that way again.

And so he fled. Well, the main reason he'd left was his voracious appetite for glory. But deep down he also knew that if he ran away he wouldn't have to reveal his secret, that he wouldn't be tempted to want to be liked. He'd felt a vindictive glee as he and Islimach rode off on their own the morning after they'd left the waypost. The dreamer had ordered him to take the first watch while the rest caught up on their sleep. How convenient. While they all dreamed he would find fame.

But, with the new understanding of himself he'd gained in Morgant's tent, he now saw his departure that morning for what it was—an act of basest desertion. He writhed in shame as the stern inner self made him see what he had done in all its ugliness. For a true warrior, though he may seek his own glory, never abandons his comrades to do so. It is the unspoken code of honor—honor! what he thought he'd been seeking!—that the good of the group comes before the good of any one member. And he had flouted this rule—with what he now saw not as courage but cowardice. The Huntsmen had been tracking the band, relentlessly. When he left—taking his extraordinary strength with him—the others were that much more likely to be killed. And, as he'd discovered when he'd run into the remnant of the group later, one of them had indeed been slain.

He just couldn't get away from the dreamer, could he? What had the pig-boy said, when Ellidyr happed upon them as the cauldron lay stuck in the river? The pig-boy accused him of being responsible for the dreamer's death. Oh, why not finally call the man by his real name? The pig-boy had blamed him for Adaon's death. "Where were you when the Huntsmen set upon us? When another sword would have turned the balance? The price was Adaon's life, a better man than you shall ever be!"

He hadn't told the pig-boy how the news affected him. It had been another one of those unwelcome facts he hadn't wanted to admit even to himself, but when he'd heard of Adaon's death a giant fist seemed to seize his throat. Oh, he'd buried that feeling soon enough. Could he truly be saddened by the death of someone he'd resented so much, someone who dared warn Ellidyr not to let pride and ambition rule him? But the stern inner self forced him to confess that, yes, he had felt both grief and remorse. Had this, then, been his return for Adaon's kindness? For even when he warned Ellidyr of the black beast his intentions had been kind. Indeed, once again he had been a healer, for had not his goal been to cure, not Ellidyr's body, but what was more damaged, his soul? And Ellidyr had repaid him by abandoning him to an untimely death. Prisoned somewhere in earth, those gentle, capable hands would never heal anyone again. He was gone, and Ellidyr lived. And, as if causing the death of one comrade were not enough, he'd tried to finish the Huntsmen's work and slay them all.

He remembered drawing his sword on the pig-boy after he'd helped the band fish the cauldron from the river. How he'd enjoyed making them all swear not to take any credit for fetching the cauldron from Morva. Needing his strength to pry the iron beast from the rocks, they had been completely at his mercy,. It had served them right, he'd thought, particularly the insolent pig-boy. He'd dared to protest at losing his glory, as if his muddy hands could ever grasp glory to begin with. But Ellidyr chose to doubt the oath the pig-boy finally took not to tell the truth about what had happened at Morva. He had to kill him, kill them all so no one could tell. And thus he had compounded his shame. At least he seemed to have injured, rather than killed, the thing and the harper. But it was quite possible the pig-boy was dead. After Ellidyr drew his sword, he'd chased the pig-boy straight into the river. Trying to draw his own weapon, the lad had slipped off the boulder on which he stood and struck his head. The last Ellidyr saw he has floating unconscious down the river's swiftly-eddying current. Surely he had drowned, especially since Ellidyr had prevented the others from helping him.

Him. What was his name? Taran. Taran of Caer Dallben. Yes, Ellidyr would have to start using that name, just as he had Adaon's. By doing so, he would, if not expiate the wrongs he had done, at least remind himself of the enormity of what those wrongs had been. It was no longer possible to deny the humanity of those he had wilfully chosen not to consider companions.

For they had been his companions, had they not? And Taran and Adaon had something in common besides their friendship for each other. They had both been—all the others had been—willing to give of themselves for their comrades. What had Adaon said after the council, when he'd urged Taran and Ellidyr to stop fighting? "We hold each other's lives in our open hands, not in clenched fists." Open hands, open hearts—Ellidyr, who kept his own heart so carefully closed, remembered the times Taran had shown far more generosity than he himself was capable of. He remembered how Taran offered his hand in friendship to Ellidyr after the council, only to be rebuffed with angry words. He remembered Taran allowing Ellidyr's lie about how he and Melynlas had slipped off the rocky slope to stand, even though it earned him Gwydion's stern rebuke. He remembered Taran's gentle touch, so like the dreamer's, when he removed the disabling stone from Islimach's shoe.

Who, then, had been the noble one, Taran or Ellidyr?

Shame and grief flooded the prince as he lay on the floor of Morgant's tent.

Morgant. And this was the final revelation of the many he'd had that day: Morgant was his twin. Recalling Morgant's face when he had ordered the prince disarmed, Ellidyr saw, as in a mirror, the harsh mask worn by someone who hated being in second place. Devoured by the black beast of lust for power, Morgant was willing to feed his own countrymen to the cauldron, to make them as unfeeling as he now was himself.

And who would those countrymen include? Maybe the weary band—Fflewddur, Eilonwy, Gurgi, and Taran if he still lived—would be the next trapped in the web over which Morgant hovered like a malevolent spider. They too would be cauldron-fodder, doomed to be spit out as mindless, voiceless warriors. Were it not for the murders he would commit in this state, Ellidyr felt that he, at least, deserved it. It was just return for the inhumanity that had brought him here. But the others, with their open, feeling hearts—it was unthinkable.

The only hope lay in someone's willingness to do the most feeling, the most open-hearted thing of all: sacrifice his life by leaping into the cauldron and destroying it.

The tent curtain flapped in the breeze. Feeling the flutter of air, Ellidyr thought he might finally be regaining consciousness. Perhaps there was still time to burst his bonds, escape, warn the others. Yet the hope he was reviving was only a cruel delusion. As if the effort of confronting his failings had been too great, he felt himself slipping, slipping, into unconsciousness—not the half-consciousness in which his mind had worked while his body lay still, but pure oblivion, an oblivion only to be replaced by the endless night of the Cauldron warrior. He strove to keep himself aware, awake. But it was no use. He was sliding into the abyss. Yet even as everything went black he found himself begging for a final chance to atone. Just as the question "What have I done" had earlier beaten against his brain, now he found himself asking:

_What can I do? _


End file.
